


the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating

by fruitwhirl



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, clarke finally gets to take a fuckin nap, coda to 6.10, imagine if this show took 2 seconds to let bellamy and clarke talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 21:29:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitwhirl/pseuds/fruitwhirl
Summary: Even without the constant mental war she’s been waging against Josephine for the past few days, he doesn’t remember the last time he saw Clarke (purposefully)  sleep for this long and it’s good to see her face so calm and light in a way that is very much not a spoiled, cut-throat brat but rather Clarke, his best friend.It’s so good.(So, so good.)





	the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating

**Author's Note:**

> hi! so i know, it's weird. i haven't posted t100 fic since literally the season four finale, but 6.10 was so incredible. and i've had this little drabble going since then. i don't typically write for drama (i have a penchant for humor and fluff), so who knows what this will end up being.
> 
> title from jnew's "time, as a symptom of love." the complete line is: "the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating _joy of life"_ , which i find to be fitting. it's such a gorgeous song about enduring love and time, and i find it working so well for bellamy and clarke, especially this season. the entirety of her album, _divers_ recalls many of the same themes that this season plays with, it's insane. after the season finale, if i'm not pissed with the show, i might write something longer and more concrete. in the meantime, enjoy this little unedited drabble that doesn't even count as spec fic because i know we'd never see anything like this for them.

A part of Bellamy thinks that after a hundred and twenty-five years of unconsciousness, they would all be bright-eyed, and while he hasn’t slept more than a handful of hours since they landed, he’s never been more tired. And he’s not alone, because just a few feet away from him—little more than an arm’s reach, really—there’s Clarke, lying on one of Gabriel’s old cots, asleep. Well, _knocked out_ might be a better term for it, because she’s only awakened when he stirs her so, for just a few moments, to make sure that she doesn’t slip into a coma.

(God, he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle _that_.)

But then, glancing over at her, he smiling something faint, thankful that Clarke finally gets to _rest._

Even without the constant mental war she’s been waging against Josephine for the past few days, he doesn’t remember the last time he saw Clarke (purposefully) sleep for this long and it’s good to see her face so calm and light in a way that is very much not a spoiled, cut-throat brat but rather _Clarke,_ his best friend.

It’s so good.

( _So,_ so good.)

A part of him is grateful that Octavia and Gabriel left them alone, left them alone so they could go and _try_ to track down Diyoza who, twelve hours prior, ran into something they’re calling the Anomaly. He’s still confused and curious, but not curious enough to leave Clarke.

Outside, the mishmash of wires and electrical cords that serves as a cobbled sort of radio tower crackles, replaying old, recycled messages. Idly, he wonders if they’d play any of the messages Clarke had sent out, almost a century and a half ago. But before his mind can wander any further, he hears her shift, snaps his attention back to her and watches as her eyes flutter open as she looks up, at him. For a fleeting second, he’s reminded of a fire and that same face, younger then, but not wholly untouched from the trauma of war.

Now, though, she smiles shyly, and then she’s moving, and it’s second nature for him to close the gap between his chair and the cot, reaching down and around her shoulders so he can help her sit up. When she bends her legs so that she’s sitting criss-cross, he realizes that he’s still holding onto her, hands light at her elbows—he’s about to pull back, but then she’s leaning into him, her head resting against his chest, his collarbone.

Her hair flits against his jaw as he asks, “Good nap?”

“Something like that,” she chuckles, and he feels the reverberation of the small peal of laughter throughout her entire torso, but he also notes the slight catch in her breath, like she’s in pain. In a flash, he remembers pounding against her chest in a desperate fit to restart her heart, and he tries to keep the concern from leaking into his voice.

“What’s wrong? Did I—”

“As my mom always says: ‘You can’t save a life without bruising a few ribs.’” The corner of her lips quirks up. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I should be dead right now, and thanks to you, I’m not.”

“Gabriel helped some.”

Clarke lets out a somehow sarcastic puff of air that’s supposed to resemble a chuckle. Then, she tips her chin up, _looks_ at him in a way that is so open, so different, and yet so, _so_ familiar. “Bellamy, I—” she breathes. Her words are soft, barely above a whisper. And the pause that she takes is almost too long, as if she changes her mind. “Thank you.”

“I lived six years thinking you were dead, and I couldn’t do it again.” Her eyes are still on him, and he avoids her gaze, flicking back to it only once or twice. Gulps. “I—I just couldn’t do it.”

There’s a long moment of silence, heavy with a sort of undercurrent that he can’t quite place. Or maybe he can, and he just doesn’t want to. He feels as she wipes a bit of wet from his cheek with her thumb, letting her outstretched hand float down to rest on his upper arm. And then he _does_ look at her again, and she’s leaning _up up up_ and he thinks, for the briefest of moments, that she’s going to kiss him. However, she keeps moving, and her whisper—fragile—tickles his ear. “I couldn’t leave you again, Bellamy.”

Pausing there for one, two, three seconds, she shifts her head again, lower, and hesitantly hovers at the corner of his jaw before pressing her lips to the rough stubble there. It’s fleeting but not, both frozen, and he thinks that she can taste the salt-water on his skin.

And all too soon, it’s over, Clarke pulling back quick and sharp and shifts over a few inches because it seems in that moment, she realized where she was and how close she was to sitting in his lap and Bellamy’s heart aches, just a little, at the loss of contact. Since the second apocalypse (since those six years she was alone, save for her adoptive daughter), she hasn’t been one to initiate physical touch, and he’s missed it.

He missed her.

It’s only been a few days, but he’s missed her.

He tells her so, his voice softer than he recognizes. It’s something he’s not the most comfortable with either—the whole verbalization thing—and he’ll normally express himself through _actions_ , but. But. There’s something about the way she sighs, about the way she follows his words by leaning her head against his shoulder, about the way she almost burrows into his collarbone soon after.

Fiddling with her hands, she asks, “Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“The ground,” she says, simply. “Earth. When we first got there.”

He furrows his eyebrows, absentmindedly lets his thumb rub small circles into the skin of her hip. “It seems like it was easier then, at least.”

“God, we were so young.”

Bellamy chuckles. “Are you calling me old?”

“No, I just, it seems like centuries ago.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “It practically was.”

She nudges at him with her elbow, and he laughs lightly at the gesture. Fuck, he’s thankful he can laugh. “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if Praimfaya never happened—if we didn’t destroy the Earth? Twice?”

“I feel like we’d find a way to destroy it anyways.” Bellamy sighs. “I feel like that’s what we always end up doing.”

“And yet, we’re still alive.” Clarke turns, presses her nose into the sleeve of his shirt. He smiles something small.

“That we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> if u wanna complain about the show, please feel free to in the comments below or in my inbox on tumblr ([dmigod](http://dmigod.tumblr.com/ask))!


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